


Smiley Face

by WriterGirl128



Series: No Big Deal [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott, Angst, Everything Hurts, Guilt, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Nogitsune, Protective Scott, Super Angst, mentions of Allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:43:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterGirl128/pseuds/WriterGirl128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it was an anchor thing, or maybe it was more. Stiles wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t sure he really cared. Because he had Scott, and Scott meant safety, and his arms meant home, and at the moment that was all Stiles really knew for certain. That was all that mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smiley Face

The nights Stiles spent with Scott were painless, effortless. They were quirky and fun and easy and just felt so _right_ that they instantly became the highlights of his week. It was like his name meant safety, and his touch meant warmth, and his laugh was a shield that protected him against the demons that frustratingly still lurked in the shadows of his mind. It was like those demons knew not to mess with him then, when Scott’s strong arms were around him, acting as the security blanket neither one of them knew for a long time that they needed.

It was the other nights Stiles dreaded. The nights without Scott—whether it was because he was working, or because he was doing something with his mom or dad, or trying to fix things with Kira—were the ones the demons liked. 

It had gotten a lot better than it was at first. As cliché as it sounds, it really was just taking time. The first few days after they’d gotten the nogitsune out of his head were the worst by far. Guilt-ridden, dark, dreary, sorrow filled days so painful even thinking about them hurt. Allison. Aiden. But it wasn’t even their deaths that hurt the most—what the worst part had been was seeing the utterly lost, broken looks in Scott and Lydia and Isaac and Mr. Argent as they were forced to keep on living despite their worlds being shattered.

It was the nightmares. It was the guilt. It was the anger. It was as if the nogitsune had left a part of him inside of Stiles, and wouldn’t stop haunting him. For a while, it felt like it would never end. For a while, Stiles hoped it wouldn’t. He deserved it, after all. After everything he’d done, he deserved it all.

But slowly, it started to fade. Painfully slowly. He still didn’t sleep every night. He still had nightmares—but they weren’t happening every time he slept, anymore. Now there were some nights spent dreamlessly sleeping, which was definitely a step in the right direction. No sweet dreams, but no nightmares, either. He’d take that over nightly reminder of all the pain he’d caused any day.

Then there were the nights with Scott—and it was on these nights where he found himself feeling as close to okay as he’s been in a long time. It was the time spent with Scott that seemed to help him heal the most.

For a while, he didn’t get it. He didn’t get how Scott could be so eager to help him up, to hold him, and comfort him, and be so kind and gentle with him that his bones actually ached with guilt. It was that unconditional love Scott had for him that he didn’t understand, he _couldn’t_ understand, because he did not deserve that kind of love from anyone, let alone someone as genuinely good and kind and caring as Scott McCall.

It made sense when he found out he was Scott’s anchor—the craving of touch, of scent, of general closeness that for some reason ended up helping them both. It was the warmth of each other, and the steadiness that came with it that helped the most.

But that didn’t mean there weren’t still bad days. Stiles still had nightmares, and in them, the demons that lurked in the corners of his mind had a field day. The nightmares didn’t happen as often, but when they did, they were paralyzing. They were vivid. They were real.

One nightmare he had wasn’t a nightmare at all—it was a memory. A memory of a dark, cold hallway, and of Lydia’s broken scream, one word, her name— _Allison._ Louder than any of her screams had ever been. It was a voice he could still hear, whispering in his ear “ _I’m going to kill all of them”_ and it was Lydia sobbing into his shirt, and it was almost as if he could hear the nogitsune, even then, hissing, “ _You let me in”_ over and over and over again.

It was being weak and dizzy and every part of his body aching. It was being so cold his bones felt frozen, and not even having the energy to muster up a shiver.

It was knowing the nogitsune was right—he let him in. It was his fault. He should’ve been stronger, should’ve fought harder.

It was the voice, haunting him with echoes of “ _One. By. One.”_

It was knowing Allison— _Allison_ —Lydia’s best friend and Scott’s first love and Mr. Argent’s only family…Allison Argent, brave and loyal and strong and incredible Allison Argent, was dead because of him.

It was knowing it should’ve been him. It was knowing that if they had just killed him when Noshiko told them to, Allison would still be alive. Allison died while protecting people, protecting her pack. Stiles lived while hurting it. She didn’t deserve to die—and he didn’t deserve to live.

It should’ve been him.

He didn’t wake himself from this nightmare by screaming. He’d stopped screaming himself awake a while ago—now he woke in silence. Dead, still, cold silence. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, instead simply stared up at his ceiling, guilt sitting on his chest like a building. It was hard to breathe.

After an eternity of darkness, sunlight started creeping through his window, and the world around him seemed to wake up. He could hear his father downstairs, wandering about the kitchen—probably putting a pot of coffee on. That’s what he always did after he woke up—put a pot of coffee on, went to the bathroom, then woke Stiles up for school. The normalcy, ironically, made the guilt feel even heavier.

But Stiles wasn’t about to let his father see that. After everything that’s happened, he owed him that much. He had no right to worry him any more—so when the Sheriff opened his door, he found Stiles curled on his side, eyes closed, like he’d been sleeping all along.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said gently, and Stiles stirred, like he was waking up. “Time to get up. You’ve got school.”

Stiles sat up, making a show out of yawning and rubbing his eyes. The yawn wasn’t exactly exaggerated, though—he was exhausted. Physically and mentally. He nodded to his dad, who gave him a quick smile before closing the door behind him as he left. 

Getting ready was harder than Stiles anticipated. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, practically dragging his heavy feet, before just standing in front of the mirror and staring at himself. _This is me,_ he tried to convince himself. But it was hard, because it didn’t look like him anymore, not really. It looked more like a shell of who he used to be—his eyes seemed empty, and there were shadows under them, and he was almost frighteningly pale. The grim line of his mouth seemed foreign, like a stranger’s. He tried to manipulate it into a smile, but it was hard—far harder than it should have been.

Stiles turned away from the mirror, focusing on brushing his teeth. He shouldn’t still feel like this. But the echo of the dream lingered in the front of his mind, and he knew it was going to be a rough day.

He’d managed to pull on some jeans and a long sleeved shirt, though he did it in kind of a haze. When he went downstairs, though, he tried to shake it off, at least for his dad’s sake. The Sheriff was just easing up with the constant worry, and it finally seemed like the cloud of concern that followed him around was clearing. He didn’t want to drag it back on top of him.

But as much as Stiles tried to be his spastic, sarcastic self during breakfast, his dad saw straight through it. He was just about to go get his stuff together for school when the Sheriff stopped him. “You okay, kiddo?” he’d asked, placing their plates in the sink.

Stiles froze where he was before turning back to him, shrugging. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

“Did you sleep alright?”

Again, Stiles shrugged, trying to get rid of the concerned tone sneaking itself into the Sheriff’s voice. “I’ve had worse.”

Now the Sheriff sighed, like he knew what Stiles was trying to do. He came over, clapping a hand on his shoulder solidly. The weight was warm, and made something calm in Stiles’ stomach. “Why don’t you take the day off from school?” he suggested, instead of pushing Stiles to talk about anything he didn’t want to.

Stiles was grateful for that. And staying home from school sounded like the perfect idea—it was hard enough to muster up the energy to get changed, let alone focus and pay attention in class and learn things and pretend to be okay all at the same time. But still… “I’ve missed so much already,” he pointed out, shaking his head.

His dad squeezed his shoulder. “You’re more important than school is,” he told him, almost gently.

Stiles swallowed a little before nodding. He wasn’t sure he’d get anything accomplished at school even if he did go. “Thanks, Dad.”

Now the Sheriff pulled him into a hug, a hug that he gratefully returned. “I’ll call the school and let them know you’ll be out sick,” he said, rubbing Stiles’ back before pulling away. “Why don’t you go let Scott know you won’t be picking him up?”

Stiles nodded, something untightening in his stomach at his name. He turned to go back upstairs, before his dad called him back, still with that almost gentle tone. “Hey, Stiles?”

Stiles turned around again. “Yeah?”

“I’m here if you ever want to, you know. Talk,” he said, almost awkwardly. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But if you do. I’m here.”

Stiles couldn’t help but feel a smile tugging at his lips, despite how hard it had been earlier, despite how leaden and cold he felt, despite how much the guilt he felt physically ached in his muscles. “I know you are, Dad. Thanks.”

The Sheriff responded with a small smile of his own, before retreating back to the sink to do the dishes. Stiles made it back up to his room with heavy feet and a heavier heart, sinking into his bed as he reached for his phone with a sigh.

_Hey, man,_ he typed. _Don’t think I’m coming to school today. Think you can manage to survive a day without me?_ He added the last part as a joke, trying to ease Scott’s inevitable over-concern before it even appeared. An indirect way of assuring him that he was alright, and not to worry.

It didn’t seem to work. Not even a minute passed after he sent it before his phone was vibrating with a reply. _Are you okay?_

_Yes, Scott. I’m fine. Have fun at school! :D_

Seconds later, his phone vibrated again. _Stiles? Are you sure you’re okay?_ Stiles knew what the words meant—they meant Scott knew he was lying, but was trying to be gentle about it and get Stiles to tell him himself.

Stiles realized his hands were shaking. He clenched them into tight fists for a moment before replying. _It was the smiley face, wasn’t it?_

_Huh?_

_The smiley face gave me away._

_Stiles, I don’t need to be next to you to know when you’re lying._ Then, a few seconds later, _But yeah. The smiley face helped a bit. You’re more of a winky face kinda guy._

Stiles sighed again. He didn’t want to worry Scott. Not with how edgy he’s felt, lately. But he didn’t want to lie to him either. _Just a rough night,_ he settled on. _I’ll be fine. Kinda just need a day off._

It was a little longer before Stiles got a reply this time, and he could picture Scott sitting there, debating whether he should take what he got or push for more. Stiles was relieved when he took it, in the same kind of way that he was when his dad did the same thing. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk about what he was feeling, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

_Okay,_ Scott’s message had said. _But I’m coming over after school whether you like it or not._

The ache in Stiles’ bones faded a little at the thought—not much by any means, but enough to just be noticeable. _Thanks, Scotty._

Stiles set his phone aside after sending it, yawning again. He was still so tired. His body felt heavy, like he couldn’t pick it up even if he wanted to. And he was cold, like the guilt sitting on his chest was slowly sucking the warmth out of his limbs. But he wasn’t as cold as Allison. His blood was still pumping, keeping him alive.

It should’ve been him.

He didn’t care that he had jeans and his shoes on—he pulled his blankets over himself, curling into them, trying to warm himself as much as he could. He closed his eyes as pulled his pillow closer, settling into the cocoon of sorts he’d made for himself. But it was as if his bed was as cold as he was, unwelcoming, even—like even it knew he didn’t deserve to be warm, anymore.

* * *

 

Stiles hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he woke up. The first thing that surprised him was that he actually felt rested—which wasn’t exactly a normal thing for him, anymore. The next thing that surprised him was that he was actually _warm,_ and a lot of the ache in his bones and muscles had faded away.

The last thing that surprised him, that really shouldn’t have, was that Scott was behind him. He was nestled into the curve of his body, holding Stiles close, sharing a bit of his crazy werewolf body heat (a thing post-nogitsune Stiles was both jealous of and grateful for) with him. He didn’t seem to be asleep, just at ease, inhaling Stiles’ scent as his thumb rubbed little circles on Stiles’ arm.

Then Stiles realized why the physical pain he had felt had practically disappeared, and sat up, smacking Scott’s hand away. “Have you been pain-draining me?” he accused, legitimately a little angry, because _hello,_ it was pain he very much deserved and Scott very much did not.

“Um,” Scott said almost awkwardly. “No?” he said, like a question.

But there was red fading from his eyes, and there was sweat beaded on his forehead. Stiles gestured to Scott’s arm, which had black, angry looking lines running all the way up it and disappearing under his shirt. The lines were slowly fading, but that didn’t make it okay.

“Okay, fine,” Scott amended, “yes, I was pain-draining you.”

Stiles shook his head. “Why?” he asked, and even he winced at the anger he heard in his voice.

Now Scott looked confused and a little hurt, and there was a pang in Stiles’ gut because he completely resembled a kicked puppy and that was totally manipulative and not okay. “Because you were in pain,” he answered, still sounding confused, like he didn’t understand what Stiles didn’t understand.

“That doesn’t mean you need to take it away and put yourself in pain!”

Scott’s eyebrows drew together a little more, like he was stung a bit by the sharpness of Stiles’ tone. “Why are you so mad at me?” he asked in a small voice.

“Because, Scott! Because—” Stiles stopped. Why _was_ he mad at Scott? He’d just been trying to help. Sure he was a little annoyed that Scott was so bent on helping he was willing to put himself in pain, but that’s nothing he had any right getting mad about. He shook his head, knowing the real reason he was so angry. “I’m not mad at you, Scott,” he backtracked, making his tone softer, less harsh. He was mad at himself.  He shook his head. “I’m not. You were helping, and I shouldn’t be yelling at you for that. I’m sorry. I just—” he broke off. “I guess I just feel bad. You don’t have to help me if it means hurting yourself.”

Something resembling a smile flickered onto Scott’s face. “Does it look like I’m in pain to you?”

Stiles looked at Scott—whose eyes were brown, and whose skin was dry, and the veins had faded from his arm—and sighed. He shook his head. “Werewolves.” But then he frowned, something else coming to mind. “I thought I told you to go to school?” he accused.

To that, Scott laughed. “I did. It’s almost five, dude.”

Stiles blinked in disbelief. He looked at the clock and—yup. 4:52.

He ran a hand over his face wearily. “Jeez. I’ve been sleeping since six this morning.”

Something in Scott seemed to relax, his shoulders not as tight as they’d been, his expression almost amused. “Given how little you’ve been sleeping, I don’t blame you. Actually, I’m kind of glad you did.” Then the amusement left his eyes, and worry took its place, his smile fading. “Rough night?” he asked simply, so open and passive, not trying to pry at all. It was a subtle-but-not-subtle invitation to talk, if Stiles wanted to, but without any pressure if he didn’t.

And Stiles did want to talk—he did. Just not yet. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to. He swallowed a lump in his throat before nodding. “Rough night,” he agreed.

Scott watched him for a second, so open and kind and caring that it made Stiles want to squirm. “I’m fine, Scotty,” he assured him. “Really. I just…it hits me, sometimes.”

Scott bumped Stiles’ shoulder with his own. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Looking down at his fingers for a minute, Stiles bit his lip. Slowly, he shook his head. “Not yet.” The weight of the guilt was still heavy on his heart, and though he was well rested, he was still tired. Emotionally. Mentally. Half of him wished he could crawl into bed and never come out. The other half of him wanted to get better, if not for his own sake, then for Scott’s.

Scott nodded acceptingly and raised his eyebrows. “Hungry?”

Stiles blinked, snapping out of his reverie. “Hm?”

Scott laughed a little. “Are you hungry? You’ve been asleep for like, eleven hours.”

At the thought of food, Stiles’ stomach growled a little, which surprised him—usually the heaviness in his body was enough to drive every craving for food out of his mind. But Scott laughed a little, and pulled Stiles to his feet, because that’s what Scott did. And within minutes, they were in the kitchen, putting pizza rolls into the oven and eating ice cream while they waited for them.

Scott didn’t bring it up again. And for a while, Stiles didn’t either. It was almost as if Scott’s eagerness to just make Stiles happy made him happy—more than any of the actions actually did. Though those did help cheer him up, too. Like when Scott wiped sauce from his finger onto Stiles’ cheek, or when he put extra whipped cream on Stiles’ ice cream because he just knew Stiles that well to know that really, the only thing he cared about when it came to ice cream, was whether or not there was a mountain of whipped cream on top. Or when he suggested they play Super Smash Brothers, which he knew full well that he’s horrible at, but claimed he’s gotten better, simply because he knew Stiles would kick his ass, which Stiles would eat up because hell yeah, he’s better at video games than a werewolf with insane reflexes.

Still, Stiles could feel the guilt building up, all over again, and could feel his body growing cold despite how close he and Scott were sitting on the couch. It wasn’t until the voice came back, for what seemed like the thousandth time, hissing in his ear, “ _I’m going to kill all of them.”_

It was like he was hearing the echo of Lydia’s scream all over again.

_“One. By. One.”_

It wasn’t until then that he paused the game and turned to Scott, who looked concerned but not surprised. Maybe he’d heard his heart rate rising—maybe he’d smelled the guilt and anxiety building up in his chest. Maybe he didn’t need his werewolf senses at all. Maybe he just knew Stiles that well to know when he was about to break.

What Stiles loved the most was that Scott waited until he brought it up. He never pushed, and he never pried, and even if he knew something was wrong, he never made Stiles talk about it.

And it was then and there that Stiles spilled his guts—word after word, rolling off of his tongue before he had a chance to stop them, and Scott was there, looking at him with so much concern and sadness and _pain_ in his eyes at what Stiles was telling him. And then Stiles was crying, and his words were slurred together, thick, and Scott had his arms around him, and he was crying too, a little, and— _god,_ Stiles was getting snot all over his shirt, but Scott was holding him close and didn’t care and his arms felt like home and his scent meant safety and he didn’t know what he did to deserve someone like Scott McCall in his life.

“Shh, Stiles,” he’d soothed, rubbing his back in little circles. “It shouldn’t have been you. It should _not_ have been you. It shouldn’t have been anyone, Stiles. Shh.”

But Stiles was still crying, and he couldn’t respond. It felt like everything inside of him was broken, it felt like everything inside of him _ached_ with guilt and pain and sorrow, but then there were Scott’s words, _it shouldn’t have been you,_ and Stiles clung onto them.

“Stiles, it wasn’t your fault,” Scott continued, gripping him tighter. “Allison would never blame you for this. Never. It shouldn’t have been you.”

Still, Stiles couldn’t speak. They stayed like that for a while, Scott murmuring promises into Stiles’ hair, ‘ _it was not your fault, it shouldn’t have been you, shh, Stiles, it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay, he’s gone, the nogitsune’s gone, Stiles, you’re okay, it shouldn’t have been you’._ Things Stiles didn’t wholeheartedly believe, but he was beginning to. Things that Scott obviously believed, and the fact that he believed in Stiles made something warm spread through his chest.

Maybe it was an anchor thing, or maybe it was more. Stiles wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t sure he really cared. Because he had Scott, and Scott meant safety, and his arms meant home, and at the moment that was all Stiles really knew for certain. That was all that mattered.  

**Author's Note:**

> Gahh it's so angsty and everything hurts I'm so sorry I thought when I started this series it would be sickeningly fluffy but nooo my brain HATES ME. Let me know what you think! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are by yours truly.
> 
> Edit: One last part for this series coming, and I promise you, there shall be fluff :D


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